The Crows

The crow By RM JENKINS

The crow, its call cawing,

Across these ploughed fields , Autumn’s leaves falling

Swift blown and swirled through those grey skies,

Bitter sounding, echoing, haunting,

Simple, yet haunting, gnawing.

Simple-black, but beating,

Iridescent arrogance above the clouds,

Majestic but ignoring, watchful but scary,

Still, The Jack of the skies, but master of none.

Its tearing, strutting carrion-cleaning, clockwork-eyed,

Beaded blood- filled beak, Crow -spread crowed,

Above our lives, brazen-black, sinking, rolling.

October’s bell is the crow’s calling

Rising, it’s simple acrobatics, gripping and scraping,

The sky, the clouds, merciless, tearing, pecking,

Perching, swapping -gripping and hopping, imagined God but simple beast.

Lord of the skies! Indeed, with streamlined plumage,

Berry- black, reflected, refracted, with fiery eyes, wingtips and weary dawning,

The crow

So simple at first glimpse, yet then so daunting.

In its simple chaos calling.